drove the Taurus back toward the road.
The last thing any of them saw before turning away from the diner was George and the two kids standing outside on the curb, watching them.
Ten
He has no trouble navigating his black chariot through the storm. Though the headlights reveal but a short distance ahead of the speeding vehicle, he is not hampered by lack of vision.
He is very close now. He can feel its presence near, can taste its power in his mouth. He slides his tongue back and forth over his teeth, savoring it. It has an acidic quality that makes him smile.
Minutes later, he pulls into a parking lot, the storm howling about him. He parks beneath a lighted lamppost and opens the door, steps out into the snow. He thinks he can sense the angels watching him from afar, and he dares them to intervene. They’ve never done so before, and he doesn’t suspect that they will now.
He stands to his full height, a gloved hand holding his hat to his scarred head, and begins to walk toward the diner. The wind whips violently at his long coat, snowflakes melting against his mirrored glasses. For a moment, he envies the power Christ exhibited out on the Sea of Galilee, that he could stop the storm with mere words. But then he realizes with a sadistic, pleasurable chill that he rather enjoys the calamity of the storm, of walking through it. He compares it to Christ’s walking on the water, appearing like a ghost to his scared disciples. And behold, the man standing in the diner sees him much the same way, does he not?
He pulls the heavy glass door open and steps out of the treacherous weather. He walks into the diner, his heavy boots splashing through half an inch of water. Why the floor is wet is not of interest to him. He is only here for the ring. Standing there, unimpressed by the owner’s frantic stare, he looks up and down the length of the building. He sees the jukebox and takes a moment to contemplate the song it’s playing, “Oh Holy Night.”The machine blinks off and goes silent under his gaze.
Slowly turning back to George, Jonathan steps toward him.
George steps behind the counter, instinctively wanting something between them. An iron door would be great, but the counter is all there is. “Can I help you?” he stammers. The tall man before him is straight out of a nightmare.
“I’m looking for a red car.” His voice is deep, otherworldly. “Have you seen one?”
Beads of sweat pop across George’s forehead. “Uh…”
The dark man turns away and walks purposefully down the aisle, stopping at the table certain customers had been seated at just half an hour before. He traces the table’s edge with a gloved finger. “How long ago did they leave?” he asks, tilting his head so that George can get a good look at the scars hiding beneath the wide brim of his hat.
George hesitates.
The man grows impatient. He starts toward the register.
“What do you want with them?”
“That doesn’t concern you.”
“I…” George turns and flees into the kitchen, seeking a weapon.
****
Jonathan brings the loud engine to life and drives out of the parking lot, not bothering to turn the headlights or the windshield wipers on. He leans over in his seat and opens the glove compartment, retrieving a handkerchief. After wiping the blood off his gloves, he rolls down the window and lets the wind snatch the red cloth from his fingers.
“I am the Crest of Dragons,” he whispers. An internal audience shouts its approval, seconding the claim. You are the Crest of Dragons! He wonders what the Lookers, those angels of Light, think about that. He keeps his glasses on, not caring to find out.
He presses down on the gas pedal and hurls his vehicle deeper into the night. The ring is close, just half an hour out. He’ll have it tonight, and hell will rejoice along with him.
****
George stares down at his own pooling blood as it drips like rain from his elevated body. He’s fastened to the
The last thing any of them saw before turning away from the diner was George and the two kids standing outside on the curb, watching them.
Ten
He has no trouble navigating his black chariot through the storm. Though the headlights reveal but a short distance ahead of the speeding vehicle, he is not hampered by lack of vision.
He is very close now. He can feel its presence near, can taste its power in his mouth. He slides his tongue back and forth over his teeth, savoring it. It has an acidic quality that makes him smile.
Minutes later, he pulls into a parking lot, the storm howling about him. He parks beneath a lighted lamppost and opens the door, steps out into the snow. He thinks he can sense the angels watching him from afar, and he dares them to intervene. They’ve never done so before, and he doesn’t suspect that they will now.
He stands to his full height, a gloved hand holding his hat to his scarred head, and begins to walk toward the diner. The wind whips violently at his long coat, snowflakes melting against his mirrored glasses. For a moment, he envies the power Christ exhibited out on the Sea of Galilee, that he could stop the storm with mere words. But then he realizes with a sadistic, pleasurable chill that he rather enjoys the calamity of the storm, of walking through it. He compares it to Christ’s walking on the water, appearing like a ghost to his scared disciples. And behold, the man standing in the diner sees him much the same way, does he not?
He pulls the heavy glass door open and steps out of the treacherous weather. He walks into the diner, his heavy boots splashing through half an inch of water. Why the floor is wet is not of interest to him. He is only here for the ring. Standing there, unimpressed by the owner’s frantic stare, he looks up and down the length of the building. He sees the jukebox and takes a moment to contemplate the song it’s playing, “Oh Holy Night.”The machine blinks off and goes silent under his gaze.
Slowly turning back to George, Jonathan steps toward him.
George steps behind the counter, instinctively wanting something between them. An iron door would be great, but the counter is all there is. “Can I help you?” he stammers. The tall man before him is straight out of a nightmare.
“I’m looking for a red car.” His voice is deep, otherworldly. “Have you seen one?”
Beads of sweat pop across George’s forehead. “Uh…”
The dark man turns away and walks purposefully down the aisle, stopping at the table certain customers had been seated at just half an hour before. He traces the table’s edge with a gloved finger. “How long ago did they leave?” he asks, tilting his head so that George can get a good look at the scars hiding beneath the wide brim of his hat.
George hesitates.
The man grows impatient. He starts toward the register.
“What do you want with them?”
“That doesn’t concern you.”
“I…” George turns and flees into the kitchen, seeking a weapon.
****
Jonathan brings the loud engine to life and drives out of the parking lot, not bothering to turn the headlights or the windshield wipers on. He leans over in his seat and opens the glove compartment, retrieving a handkerchief. After wiping the blood off his gloves, he rolls down the window and lets the wind snatch the red cloth from his fingers.
“I am the Crest of Dragons,” he whispers. An internal audience shouts its approval, seconding the claim. You are the Crest of Dragons! He wonders what the Lookers, those angels of Light, think about that. He keeps his glasses on, not caring to find out.
He presses down on the gas pedal and hurls his vehicle deeper into the night. The ring is close, just half an hour out. He’ll have it tonight, and hell will rejoice along with him.
****
George stares down at his own pooling blood as it drips like rain from his elevated body. He’s fastened to the
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